


Suburban wasteland

by Whoops_heck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bokuto, BAMF Kuroo, BAMF Tsukishima, Bamf akaashi, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gore, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Zombie Apocalypse, love in war, sorry - Freeform, theyre all bad as heck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-24 02:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whoops_heck/pseuds/Whoops_heck
Summary: To be alone is to be a deadman walking.Akashi Keiji knows this too well.—or—Zombie apocalypse au





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an introduction to what’s going on with Akashi at the moment

The house is old, but not just in age. Sure, the floors creak and the paint is chipped but these factors aren’t what make this house old. It’s the dashes to mark height of children that once roamed these halls. Its the patched holes in the wall where kids were running too fast to make the turn. It’s scribbled crayon behind bed frames. The house is old in a way that makes anyone in it feel ancient. Too wrinkly and aching to belong amongst dashes, plaster, and scribbles.

No matter how long the windows stay open, the house never seems to air out. A musty smell fills the rooms and sticks with one when they leave. When sun streams in through the windows the dust particles in the air seem to rise up and float endlessly through the light. A once thin layer of dust builds on stacks of newspaper and unused furniture. A chair, a couch, and a bed are the only spared prices in the house.

Those are fresh and alive in a house that should have died a long time ago.

A family lived here, before I ever stepped foot in this house. A real family with real kids and pets and dinners spent their lives in this house. It’s almost unbelievable. These walls were someone’s very existence before I came here. The thought is unnerving, as if I’m disrupting the houses slow decomposition. Shocking back to life what was content to fade away.

It’s inhumane. 

But this is just another home I’ve tarnished with my presence. Houses I’ve inserted myself into the history of when I had no business being there in the first place. In some ways it’s nice, opening blinds and filling a silent room with noise. There’s a certain sense of meaning that comes along with saving what would have gone to waste. But that’s just me trying to rationalize the intrusion. Reason away the guilt I feel when I see family pictures on a mantle place and can’t recognize a single face. 

It’s in those moments I can’t help but wonder what I’m even doing here.

Why couldn’t I just have gone with the first bunch? Died a horrible death but gotten it over with. How come I couldn’t be in one of the pictures a squatter feels guilt about? Why did I survive at all?

But no one is there to answer these questions. In this big old house, creaking with age and use, it’s just me alone with my thoughts. There’s no one for miles, an endless wasteland of suburbia with no one but me.

The last person I saw was an old friend. We had been traveling togethor then all of the sudden we weren’t. He had collapsed in the ground and was breathing as if an elephant layed on his back. I saw his mentality shift, realization hit, and when he looked me in the eyes I saw my friend had already accepted his fate. His instructions were clear, find a house, lock me in a room making sure there’s no way for me to escape, leave and don’t look back.

As a scream tears through the old structure I can’t help but feel as though two out of three wasn’t good enough. 

Because a family used to live here.

And now a monster does.


	2. Chapter 2

One weak link can break a chain. That’s the motto that is shoved in the faces of people at quarantine G-4 everyday. Don’t be that weak link. Don’t break the chain.

A relatively peaceful life cannot be attained without war. It’s a sad truth but it’s one I’ve come to accept. The speed with which I have is the only reason I’m alive. Too many were dragged behind by their unwillingness to kill what looked so similar to us. What once was us. Their flesh isn’t green and they don’t hunger for brains. The stereotypes forcefed by the media are so false that it’s almost funny. But in a time of death and war, nothing seems funny anymore.

So soldiers who guard the border sit in solemn silence, eyes trained to the horizon.

There are many ways to become a weak link. A seemingly endless list of ways to screw this up for everyone. A somewhat peaceful quarantine is nothing if a single infected person steps foot within the walls. The guards are most strictly analyzed, having the closed contact to the infected. 

Guns sit heavy in idle hands. Used but once a week, a gun shot does nothing but send fear throughout the residents of G-4. Everyone seems to stop in those moments. Realization hitting that they were close. Without those guards they would have gotten here.

Plenty people fight it. Protests with signs full of angry words. Rational is a rare commodity within the compounds walls. The people of G-4 yell up to guards about what murdering scum they are from the streets below. 

I can’t help but think they should take a moment to contemplate which sound is worse, the singular shot of a gun or those infected banging their rotting fists on welded steel metal plates. 

At times like these a life outside the compound sounds so tempting. If I stretch my hand out far enough I’m sure i could feel a running stream glide over my fingers. I’m sure the rustle of leaves could come from my hands and mean more than a warning sign. 

There must be others out there. 

There has to be.

Because if there isn’t, I’ll surely die out their all alone. I’m strong and one hell of a shot but out there on my own, there’s no way I would make it.

I’d break my own chain before I even Made it to the nearest city.

But Kuroo is there, like he always is. He sits atop that wall in a plastic deck chair and he is always present. Looking as though he will snap at any moment. His fingers twitch and creases worm their way between his brows. But with a gun in his hands, Kuroo is steady.

“Let’s get out of here.”

And he turns to me but I keep my eyes trained to the horizon. A minute might have passed, maybe an hour, could have been a second, but when it was over the only sound on that steel wall was Kuroos rough voice saying, “Ok.”


	3. Chapter 3

The monster I left in that house stopped screaming after six days. Fitting the schedule like the guidelines were written exactly for him. I can’t say I loved the creature, I’m not sure I can even say I liked him. But he was all I had. 

All that I had for a year and a half. 

But that monster didn’t matter anymore. I was on my own and stepping out of that house filled me with fear. It courses through veins and arteries like it was meant to be there. If there was one thing I learned, it’s that fear is necessary. More necessary than ever because as long as I’m afraid, I’m alert and ready to run. If my heart beat is quick, than I can be too.

So I leave the house. The porch creaks and my feet are loud. Louder than I remember. That monster usually filled the noise with stories or mindless conversation. Without that every noise is like a gun shot. 

Another step. Another round is fired off.

Just as I’m about to take a step off the aging welcome mat a noise so loud whizzes all around me. 

A gun shot.

I drop as quickly as possible and pull out my hand gun from where it’s tucked in the back of my jeans. Crouching behind a post that I pray is enough cover, my hands calm around the grip and I wait for a sound that will give away my attacker’s location. None ever come.

I have no choice but to try to talk my way out of this.

“Why’d you shoot?”

It’s been at least a week since I’d spoken. My voice cracks and wobbles but the force doesn’t go unnoticed. At least I hope it doesn’t.

“You can speak?”

My eyebrows draw togethor in confusion, “What the fuck are you talking about? Im gonna stand up ok? Don’t shoot me.”

And slowly I go to stand. Looking around my eyes can’t find a face to match the voice I heard. That voice was new, unlike the music this family kept in their house. It was real and personal and new. It was nicer than the monsters.

“Up here idiot.”

His voice draws me to the roof of the house one door over. The sun glares on his face and I don’t y understand how his fair skin isn’t burning red. A barrel is still pointed at me.

“Why did you shoot at me?”, I repeat. This time my voice is steady. Looking down a barrel hasn’t never scared me but my hand twitches now. 

He shrugs, shoulders pronounced and elegant. Damn it, this was not the time to be thinking about that.

“Thought you were the one making those noises.”

“Well I’m not.”

He scoffs and adjusts his position on the roof. Gun still pointed at my head.

“So I’ve gathered.”

There’s silence for a minute or two as we stare at each other. His eyes shine golden in the sun. But there’s an fear in his gaze. Underneath the calm facade it’s clear that the heart that pounds in my chest pounds in his too. Quick. Stuttering. Pounding against a brick wall of ribs.

“Are you alone?”, he finally asks.

I think back to he screams that ripped through the house behind my heels. And how, only hours ago, they had stopped.

“Yah, I am.”

“Well me too. Let’s not die out here. We’ll get going in the morning.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’ll die on our own. We’ll survive better togethor. You should know that if you’ve survived this long. Unless you and your partner-“ he nods his head to the house and I repress a shudder, “deserted.”

I shake my head and he doesn’t react aside from saying, “Tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.”

I step back in the house with dust and a monsters corpse.

Tomorrow will be different. 

Tomorrow will be new.


End file.
